


Drop

by VerdantMoth



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-18
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2019-08-23 06:37:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16613795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VerdantMoth/pseuds/VerdantMoth
Summary: Merlin is running, running faster than he thinks he ever has before. He has never possessed much grace though, and the uneven terrain has sent him sprawling a few times already. His hands are raw and his knees bloody. He thinks he should be worried, to any extent, about the state of his suit, but he’ll reimburse his mother later.





	Drop

**Author's Note:**

> Deals with themes of Suicide. Proceed at your own risk.

 

Merlin is running, running faster than he thinks he ever has before. He has never possessed much grace though, and the uneven terrain has sent him sprawling a few times already. His hands are raw and his knees bloody. He thinks he should be worried, to any extent, about the state of his suit, but he’ll reimburse his mother later.

He takes another tumble, hisses as the gravel cuts into his flayed skin. He doesn't have time to pick them out as he slips across the wet ground trying to right himself.

“Arthur!”

There is no answer, though he hadn’t really expected one.  “Arthur!” He cries again, but the evening swallows his voice. He’d known, that morning, that something was off. Had seen it in the way Arthur moved. Felt it in the half-peck against his beard.

He can’t remember what Arthur said to him that morning. Doesn’t recall if Arthur had told him about his schedule, or if he’d said “I love you” as he slipped out the door of their loft. Merlin tries,  _ he tries _ , but he cannot remember.

He doesn’t think he spoken to Arthur since the night before, told him anything more than “Dinner with mum tOmo row. I’ll be in late, yeah?”

“Arthur!” He shrieks it. To his left birds take flight, answering him with their cries but he has no time for their outrage.

He stops for a moment sweat dripping down his back and into his eyes. He’s too far from the top. He’ll never make it up the steep incline. For the first time in his life he wishes for the magic of his ancestors. He begs his namesake for wings, for the ability to slow time, for a chance to go back, just an hour, and to walk through the door before Arthur left.

He takes off once more, but his lungs are bursting and his feet are slipping around in his wingtips, bloody and blistered. He knows he is too late, knows he’ll never reach the top in time. He hates Arthur for this. The dive was their thing, their dream. They’d sketched and talked and planned.

He’s about just coming to the top when he hears a sound like a gunshot ricocheting off the steep cliff faces. He stumbles as if a bullet has pierced his chest, sinks to his knees and cannot breath. “Arthur!” Again his cries ring out into the night.

```

He doesn’t know who called. Probably a tourist at the bottom, some innocent bystander watching the rocks below the drop. They ask him a million questions and he answers in half phrases and incoherent memories.

“Wasn’t supposed to jump from there. Couldn’t avoid the rocks.” He can’t tell them about the empty Jamesons on their counter, or the prescription ready to be filled. He keeps his hands firmly lodged in his pocket, can’t remove them for fear of what he’ll admit.

His mother arrives, already dressed in her nightgown. She pushes past the officers and the emergency responders, pushes away the man currently interrogating Merlin. She doesn’t say a single word as she wraps her arms around him, as she lets him collapse into her. She just kisses his temple and does her best not to sink beneath his weight.

It’s nearly three a.m. when she ushers him back into his childhood bedroom. She had wanted to take him back to the loft, but he’d stepped out of the car and immediately vomited at the thought of his empty bed, the quiet room.

He slumps beneath an old quilt and tries to remember if he has cried yet. His head aches and his mouth is dry, still tasting of bile despite brushing his teeth, but his eyes are dry.

“Tomorrow, Merlin. We’ll deal with this then.”

His mother pulls his shoes off, does her best to tend to his bloody feet. He doesn’t even hiss at the sting of the alcohol. She pulls off his jacket, removes his tie and the burgundy shirt. He lets her help him out of his pants, but he doesn’t let her take them. He keeps his hand firmly lodge in the pocket. Can’t let her wash Arthur’s last words.

“I can’t remember if I told him ‘I love you’ this morning. I can’t remember if I said anything at all.”

He wonders if that will always be the thought he associates with Arthur. He thinks he wants to sob, wants to weep. Instead, he stares at the stars he’d once pasted to his wall, mind racing to remember Arthur’s voice.

  
  



End file.
